Secret Fire
by Rose Cotton
Summary: "Then darkness took me, and I strayed out of thought and time, and I wandered far on roads that I will not tell." An account of Gandalf's fight with the Balrog, with an unexpected twist. Non-slash.
1. Prologue: An Old Flame

**Secret Fire**

A/N: First of all, most of this story takes place early in the First Age.  Some knowledge of _The Silmarillion_ is almost essential for full understanding and appreciation of this story.  If you don't want to read the whole thing, at least read _Ainulindalë_ and _Valaquenta_, and that should give you a pretty good idea of things.

I haven't seen many Gandalf romances here, and thought I'd try my hand at one.  Be patient, for updates will most likely be slow.  This story is slightly AU in that Gandalf quite clearly says that the Balrog is a "he."  However, I changed this minor detail (maybe not so minor to the Balrog ;-)) for the sake of the story.  Other than that, I am attempting to stay true to canon.

Prologue: An Old Flame

"Fly, you fools!"

Even as the words issue from his lips, his grasp on the crumbling stone bridge weakens, and he falls.  Into a long black abyss he falls, not knowing how long he will continue to fall, or what will meet him at the bottom.  The departing cries of his friends follow him, taunting him, tormenting him with the thought that despite all his efforts, he has not been able to do it at the last; he can protect them no longer.

_At least the Ringbearer is leaving this place, he thinks.  _He has met with far too many dangers upon the road already.  I only hope that Aragorn can protect him from the rest.  I know he will try._  For a time his thoughts linger upon the Ringbearer, that simple yet amazingly strong hobbit who stole his heart many years ago.  He can remember clearly the first time he ever saw him, before he knew of the Ring's evil, before the Shadow that had fallen upon his heart when Bilbo had found It materialized into great fear and great temptation.  He recalls the day when he was in the Shire, and the lad was seven, and Bilbo brought the lad to meet him.  The lad's excitement was contagious; the wizard felt nearly young again, listening to him chatter with excitement about his life, only to sit down at the wizard's feet and beg for stories.  The wizard talked until he could talk no more, and still the lad clamored for tales of adventures, with a stubbornness that was both annoying and endearing at once.  Bilbo told the lad firmly, "Now listen here, Frodo.  Your parents are good folk, they are, but a little suspicious of what they don't understand; and they'd not let me see you again for a good long time, if they knew that you'd seen a wizard.  So this is to be our little secret, understand?"  The lad nodded, and never had trouble keeping the secret, though the wizard had seen few that could do so at such a young age.  He knew from that day on that the boy was special._

His desire for the Ringbearer's safety, then, is not merely for the sake of the Quest.  It is a very personal desire, born of a great love and affection for the hobbit.  Although, he reflects, even that did not keep him from being tempted along the road, at least in Moria.

It was in Khazad-dum that the temptation proved its strongest, for there he came up against a foe greater than he.  When he realized the nature of his enemy, it became alarmingly clear to him that by his own strength, he barely stood a chance.  Only with the Ring could he truly hope to defeat the enemy.  And then the Ring called to him, called with that sweet, seductive voice which sounded eerily familiar, as if It whispered to him of a past life.  He wondered about this, but did not have time to ponder it closely, for he had to lead the Fellowship across the bridge.  With a struggle he rejected Its offer, and turned to face his foe.  And then he smote the bridge, and his enemy fell, and he began falling…

It has been long now, and he is still falling.  The fire of his enemy has been extinguished; but he can still sense it beneath him, a living shadow, darkness personified.  The whip which curled about his knees has released him; but he can see it still shimmering in the darkness, a hint of flame still left.  Fire against fire…  _Eru save us; who shall win this battle?_

Something has changed in the air; he can sense it.  He begins flailing about, trying to slow his descent, then suddenly pulls his arms in close beside him, to prevent them from breaking upon collision.  He lands noiselessly on wet rock, while he hears a splash beside him.  There is an underground pool here which has moistened the ancient stones.  He lies there, still, for a moment, then cautiously stretches out his hands to feel about him.  Grabbing hold of a ledge, he pulls himself slowly to his feet, feeling the weight of many mortal years upon his withered body.  He looks from side to side, letting his eyes become accustomed to the darkness.  

Then he sees his enemy.

Its fire has been extinguished from landing in the pool; droplets hang from it, teeter, and fall to the ground.  A foul stench rises from it—the stench of a drowned animal, or of something worse; the stench of a fire that has been quickly put out.  Smoke still hangs in the air, surrounding it, unwilling to depart so soon.

He takes a step toward it—always the proactive one, always full of fire and life.  "Who are you?" he asks, though he knows it is a useless question.  "What do you want?"

The voice that answers is startlingly soft and silky, feminine yet strong.  "Do you not know me, Olórin?"

He gasps.  "Melarië…"  


	2. Chapter 1: Song of the Ainur

Author's Note: If you like this chapter, then please, please read _Ainulindalë_, the first short story in the _Quenta_ Silmarillion_.  Most of this is derived from that story.  Also, as I am a Christian, you may find me mixing a few Christian-ish ideas into Eru, Morgoth, etc.  I'm sorry if that offends you; it's just part of who I am.  _

I've always considered Gandalf as something of an enigma.  On one hand he's gray and wise and comforting; on the other he's fiery and impetuous and angry.  I've done my best to portray this "split personality," if you will.

Thank you so much to all my reviewers!  :-)

Chapter One: Song of the Ainur

Once, long ago, before the world itself existed, there was Eru, the One.  He was the Omnipotent, the Omnipresent, the Omniscient.  He was the Beginning and the End.  He knew all things, for nothing could have its being without His consent.  And before the dawn of time, He created the Ainur, the Holy Ones.  They were with Him before aught else was made.

…

"Olórin…"

He heard the voice calling faintly.  It seemed to him that he had always known that Voice, like it was a part of him.

"Olórin, awake."

And he awoke.  He opened his eyes—eyes?  What were these?—and looked about him.  There was nothing but a void.  And he saw the void, and wished for it to be filled with something.  A desire awoke in him, a desire to explore, to learn new things, to discover.

The Voice spoke again, with affectionate amusement.  "So you wish to discover, do you?  That is good, for I have created that desire in you.  Not for you the love to conquer and exploit, but only to learn; for truly, you will become one of the wisest.  In due time.  Come, now."

The owner of the Voice reached out His hand—hand?—to Olórin.  Olórin took the hand with one of his own, and was brought upright, to his… feet, yes, that is what they were.  He looked down at them in awe.

There was a gentle, rippling sound coming from the Voice; he would later come to know it as laughter.  "Come, my inquisitive one!  You must meet the others of your kind, the Ainur."

That stopped him short.  Others?  There were other beings besides him and the Voice?  If his desire to discover new things had been strong, his desire to discover new people, new creatures, was even stronger.  He obeyed the One, the Voice, and followed.

As they traveled, the One spoke to him, saying wonderful things beyond comprehension.  Olórin was glad to hear these things, and a reply formed in his heart.  Before he thought, he began singing.  His song was vibrant, zealous, full of life and energy.  The One smiled at him, which made him only sing all the more.  

After an interminable time (for time as yet had no meaning), the One brought him to a place where many others were gathered.  Olórin marveled to see them all—so like him, and yet each one unique.  He realized as he watched them that they were not confined to one physical appearance; rather, they changed back and forth between various looks.  Sometimes one would be tall and dressed in blue; another time, short and dressed in brown.  Some of the others appeared the same for a long time, while some of them changed appearances nearly constantly.

Olórin looked down at himself, curious as to what images he was projecting.  He realized that he had two basic looks that he alternated between.  One of them was a dazzling crimson, terrible in its brightness and energy.  The other was a soft gray, comforting and gentle.  It seemed almost that he had a split personality, or that there were two sides to him, both warring for supremacy.

Then, after all were gathered, the One began to tell them of a great theme, more wonderful than anything they had yet imagined.  Olórin was lost in awe as he listened.  When He was finished, the One commanded them to make a Great Music together, the Ainulindalë.  He fell silent, and waited for them to do so.

At first, Olórin was hesitant.  Make music _with the others?  He wasn't sure that he could do such a thing.  But as the voices of the bolder ones sang out, and did not clash with one another, Olórin gathered his courage and began to sing also._

He did not stop to think about what he would sing.  No idea of melody, harmony, or rhythm entered his mind; he only opened his mouth and let his heart flow outwards.  When he stopped to think of it, he was amazed; though many were all singing at once, there was no dissonance.  Every part fitted together perfectly, in a great symphony the like of which the world has never known since.  

At some point he became vaguely aware that another voice sounded very much like his.  Like his song, it was exuberant and passionate, full of life.  Olórin felt admiration for this strong voice, whosever it was.  He began testing it by singing a particular melody.  To his delight, the voice took up a beautiful harmony.  Then it was the other voice's turn to sing a melody, and he found an appropriate harmony.  He laughed in sheer delight at discovering this kindred spirit.

Then he heard it.

There was a dissonance in the music.  It began slowly, as the quietest hint of trouble—a diminished chord here, a syncopated rhythm there.  Then it spread.  Others took up the dissonance and projected it onto still more voices.  Olórin realized why it had spread so quickly: the first voice to sing it was the mightiest of all the Ainur.  

The One lifted His left hand and smiled, and lo! there was a new theme, strange and beautiful.  Olórin quickly adapted to this theme and sang with it.  But then the dissonance returned, stronger than before.  So the One lifted up His right hand, and His face was stern.  A third theme began, perhaps the most beautiful of them all, but also the saddest.

Olórin found himself strangely drawn to this third theme, at the same time that he was repulsed by it.  It was so very melancholy, and all he wished to do was celebrate.  And yet, it was so beautiful that he could not help but stop and wonder at it.  It seemed a gentler theme, a more patient one than what he had been singing before.

His kindred spirit, he noticed, did not care for the third theme at all.  That voice did not succumb to the dissonance, but neither did it embrace the third theme.  Instead, it increased its power and beauty in the second theme, singing a creation of the One, but without the calming influence of the last theme.

Finally, the dissonance became too much to bear.  The One raised both His hands, and his face was terrible to behold.  With one great chord that filled all being and all nothing at once, the Music ceased.

Then the One rebuked Melkor, for indeed it was he who had started the dissonance.  The One spoke of many things which Olórin did not understand.  He was filled with fear and trembling, and wondered in amazement how anyone could dare to defy the great Eru.  

When He was done speaking, the One showed the Ainur a vision of a world yet to come.  Olórin looked at it and gasped.  He could see his own song there, the product of his intellect, the creation of his heart.  It shone through in little ways that he supposed only he noticed.  Then he saw something else… the creation of his fellow spirit.  It was like his and yet unlike his, quicker, more relentlessly pressing, not as gentle.  But in both of their creations he saw a wondrous thing.  It moved and danced as if it were alive, and yet he saw that it was not so.

"What is that?" he whispered in awe.

The One heard his question, and turned to him and smiled.  "It is fire," He answered.


End file.
